Ass, Grass, You Get the Memo?
by Crystallized Honey
Summary: Alfred just wants to fucking sleep, but he is totally convinced that his neighbor, Ivan, is a morning demon spawned from the very pits of Hell. He can tell by the lawnmower. Like, c'mon. It's sooooo obvious.
1. The Prologue: What We Know So Far

"Morning people," you know, those who claim to be completely and utterly infatuated with the rising sun, are **Satanists** —hellish sinners bred in the deepest parts of Hell. They are re-spawned demons who have grown so accustomed to the bright flames meant to engulf and torture them for eternity that they find solace within the presence of the sun. You know, that wildly hot, _totally-overcompensating-for-something_ "star" orbited by all planets. Whether it be beaming down upon the Earth with scorching rays and roasting poor, innocent humans or shining bright enough to cause a sixty-two car pileup due to its glare, those inconsiderate beings _love_ it.

At least, that's Alfred's theory. And he has a thousand other sweet ones. Alas, those are to be left for another time (never). He also has a _striking_ amount of evidence that is bound to have the DOSD, Department of Supernatural Defense, which is totally a thing, groveling at his feet and begging him to join their team.

 **Exhibit A(sshole): The Neighbor,** also known as, the _only_ Exhibit. Those are minor, _minor_ details. He'd have to ask Matthew for information about the other neighbor another time. Exhibit B(itch) shall be her name, if she proves to be supernatural as well.

1.) His name is Ivan Braginsky (What kind of name is that? Demonic).

Or Brainsky, Bragins, Bangrinky, et cetera, depending on who's sending the mail. _Not_ that Alfred ever got a hold of his mail at any occasion. He totally didn't open and read any of it either. He may have taken a few magazines on space, but the way he sees it, those are totally free game since they're not sealed.

2.) He lives next door.

Duh! _Neighbor!_ Anyway, the important part is that he lives within peeking-distance, sans glasses, of Alfred's bedroom window. Not in a perverted, voyeuristic way, but in a _I-know-what-you-are-and-I'm-keeping-my-eye-on-you (and your smoking, hot, slightly blurry bod)_ kind of way. That, and he was kind of super fucking hot. Alright. Maybe Alfred is the _slightest_ bit attracted to the morning demon guy. It'll make for an awesome story in the future.

3.) He has a dog named Laika, who loves to bark all morning.

Like owner, like dog? In the dog's defense, she doesn't start yapping until _Ivan_ decides to start making noise. Besides, she's too cute and cuddly to be a demon, too. Plus, Alfred has a bag of dog treats stashed in his lower dresser drawer that has yet to run out. There is absolutely no way he's going to let that money go to waste.

4.) He lives alone.

Seriously. Like, no one ever goes in or out of that house that is not him. It's kind of scary. Kind of... mysterious. Definitely a sign of demonic activities going on.

It all adds up.

Okay, okay, _okay_. So maybe that's not exactly an abundance of solid evidence and unbiased information to prove Ivan's otherworldly status, but Alfred is a busy kid. He has numerous assignments to turn in late, dozens of video games to play, and only measly hours to regain all the energy college saps out of his youthful, irresponsible body. Lately, even those hours have been sent to the chopping block.

He thinks he deserves a little more credit than is usually given to him.

The list is pretty much just for show anyway. There is nothing cooler than glaring out your window at an unsuspecting idiot as you write down—in your _super secret notebook—_ every single observation you make in order to possibly have them executed at a later date for disturbing your sleep. Regardless, the only true evidence Alfred needs to prove that his neighbor is some sort of morning demon from Hell is the fact that he owns...

 **A LAWNMOWER!**


	2. The Origin Stories

First thing's first, Alfred cannot be blamed for any hazy details because ninety-percent of the time he is half-asleep in the morning. That's life.

It all begins with a hastily scheduled exam (fuck you, Professor Schmidt), an excruciating seven-hour cram session followed by a two-hour search on cheating tips and tactics throughout the world wide web, and—of course— _a fucking lawnmower_. _Every single problem_ he would ever encounter after this day would come as a direct result of that wretched, grass-eating monster.

As one would imagine, after spending an entire night switching between procrastinating and attempting to memorize three chapters worth of insensible chemistry formulas, Alfred is sleeping. All snuggle-y beneath his galaxy-patterned blankets, dream-protected by his amazing Superman poster that is tacked directly above his bed, and prepared for any spontaneous action that may arise by being clad in his Spiderman pajamas. Under his pillow lies a fully loaded Nerf gun as well. Admittedly, it isn't the most comfortable thing to rest your head on, but one must always be ready for imminent danger!

Heroes are targets. Consistently haunted and tormented by villains!

One second he is sleeping soundlessly and, the next, he is being jolted awake by the sound effects track meant to back the film _Texas Chainsaw Massacre_. There is screaming, yet it does not come from outside, rather, it comes from inside his very own bedroom. It totally wasn't him, though. Definitely a banshee. Geez! Those chicks never shut the hell up. Right?

Alfred is so startled that he falls out of bed, narrowly avoiding cracking his skull open on the corner of his end-table. _Fuck_ , that would have been an excellent excuse to skip out on the exam.

 **Please state your excuse for not attending class today.**

 _My brains are currently spilling onto the floor. See the attached image for visual verification._

 _P.S: It's actually pretty cool. Looks like some weird ass jello or something._

However, his mind is in other places. Or, in other words, most of his slowly regenerating brain power is presently going to maneuvering his sluggish body towards the window with his arms and legs still cocooned within his comforter. Everyone says not to investigate the mysterious noises when you are in a horror movie. Sometimes he forgets. But _never fear!_ It's nothing a hero cannot handle. This ain't no horror film!

Catwoman has nothing on him. His grace is proven by the twenty-two seconds it takes for him to roll and wiggle his way over to the window. Minor details: the curtains may have fallen when he knocked into them and he may have knocked his head against the windowsill when he lifted himself into a kneeling position. An A-plus for effort and a D-minus for effectiveness in procedure. Overall, better than his grades in Chemistry.

Sliding his fingers between the blinds, he pries them open enough to peek outside with minimal damage to his corneas from the sun. Surprisingly, based on his judgments by the amount of chainsaw-like noise beyond his window, there are no guts and intestines splattered across the grass. No heads strolling down the street. Nor is there a mask-wearing giant slinging around a power-driven slice-and-dice machine with the intent to slaughter a group of incompetent teenagers.

Instead, in all his Satanic glory, stands his neighbor, Mr. Tall, Demonic, and Handsome. His antisocial behaviors were always suspicious. Now Alfred knows, without a shred of a doubt, that this man is an _actual_ demon. And not a normal one either. A demon created specifically to do Satan's bidding in the morning. Everyone knows Satan despises sleep. Duh! That's why Hell's flames are everlasting. Try and sleep during that.

"Hey!" Alfred calls weakly, much too tired to yell. "Heeeeyyy!"

Consistently. _Hey!_ Over and over. _Heeeyyy!_ To no avail. _You! Yes, you! Focus your eyes upon me!_ God damn those idiotic helicopter-style headphones. If only he had a pair.

Two and a half rows (who gives a fuck if they're columns from anyone else's standpoint) of fucking grass are mowed, all without a single pause or glance within his direction. All while he continues to call out. Seriously, there's absolutely no way that asshole couldn't feel his eyes on him. Or, at least, spot him through his peripheral vision.

In attempt to lure the other's attention upward towards the window, Alfred pulls the blinds up, slides the screen open and leans his head out as far as he dares, which isn't very far. He's not risking falling and being blended up like that shitty grass. No way! Green smoothies are the worst! The most he is willing to try is to wildly wave his hands, still shouting as loudly as one can shout at 7:23 in the damn morning.

Throwing something is an option. All the same, he does not want to add attempted murder to attempted attention-grabbing if something happens to swirl up in those blades and blow the whole machine up. Imagine how awesome that would be, though. Boom, boom, boom! Explosion, explosion, explosion!

 **Please state your excuse for not attending class today.**

 _I accidentally killed my neighbor and am going to turn myself in._

 _P.S: The attached image contains my mugshots. Please post them around campus to show how cool I am._

It just doesn't flow as well.

He's distracted.

"Fucking hey! You stupid, dumb motherfu—"

"Are you, perhaps, trying to get my attention?"

Oh, of course he finally answers when the insults start. Alfred may have felt slightly ashamed of his behavior if he did not want to sleep as soon as possible. So sickeningly sweet is the other's voice that he feels himself becoming drowsy. It's as if he swallowed an angel. Eh, he probably did. Being a demon and all. His heart is being tugged in so many directions.

"Yes. I sort of have an exam in two hours or so. I was wondering if you could maybe... not?"

Mr. Handsome smiles ( _deviously_ ), leaning against his lawnmower. "'Not' what?"

"Nooooot," he draws the word out, twirling his hands and gesturing awkwardly before swiftly finishing with, "mow your lawn while I'm trying to sleep?"

His neighbor stares up at him, those beady, (sexy,) little eyes burning holes into his pure, innocent soul. Directly staring back probably isn't helping. Alfred can practically feel his lifespan being sapped away. One, two, _three years._ Oh, God! He'll be dead by Christmas.

For a moment, it appears that he is actually considering being a good Samaritan, yet Alfred is not so easily fooled. Demons are professionals at deceit, he knows. Nevertheless, those irises do not hold enough color to fully conceal the tiny dancing, pitchfork-handling devil dwelling in the abyss of his body (because demons have no organs). The eyes are the window to the soul. And if you don't have one, they're the window to the body.

"Hmmmm... No."

With that, the man slides his ugly, large noise-cancelling headphones into position over his ears, turns back to his devilishly loud machine and twists the little dial to rev the engine up once more before Alfred can even open his mouth. The jagged humming of the lawnmower is so loud that Alfred can barely hear himself think. And he has a very, very powerful thinking-voice, so that is a hard feat to accomplish. It is an indescribably horrid sound in the wee hours of the morning.

Wee... He has to go to the bathroom.

The minutes tick by as he, rendered uselessly shocked by such impolite behavior, watches the man travel slower than a sloth with broken limbs up and down the large expanse of his lawn. Each traveling path is tight and perfectly aligned, slightly overlapping in order to leave no grass uncut.

 _How long has he been mowing lawns?_ A snicker ensues. _Ha, ha! He mows lawns for a living. Stupid neighbor. So stupid. So... hot? It's so hot out. Take your shirt off. But wait until I get my glasses on. So that I can easily stake you in the heart, duh. Obviously. So obvious... Except demons don't have organs! Oh, my god!_

Does he watch his neighbor complete the entirety of the lawn because he's infatuated or because he wants to throttle the fuck out of him? It has to be the latter. Has to!

"Hello, little boy. I am going to ask my neighbor if she would like her lawn mowed as well," the demon calls, tauntingly, derailing Alfred's staggering train of thought. "Good luck on your exam!"

Alfred slams his window shut so harshly that he is surprised the glass manages to stay within the panes. He doesn't even bother with drawing the screen back down. And he hopes to God his neighbor has good enough vision to catch sight of his two flying birdies.

One, for disrupting his sleep.

The second, unknowingly for the exam he would sleep through and, ultimately, fail. All on account of the fact that he could not get the annoying, aggravating thrum of that engine out of his head.

 _That stupid science bitch couldn't even make him more smarter anyway._

And that was the day Alfred vowed to bring an end to his neighbor. Although, if the authorities were to ask, that was day Alfred swore he would be (not at all) understanding of his neighbor's (Satanic, asshole-ish) actions and, at a later date, (report him to supernatural hunters so that he can be executed) have a polite conversation about boundaries and noise levels for the safety of their neighborhood's unity.

That was also the day his notebook became: _the_ **_Super Secret Notebook!_**

Disclaimer (but not really, though): Any resemblance it may have to the Handy Dandy Notebook used by Steve in the television show Blue's Clues is completely coincidental and unintended. No, there is _not_ an orange couch hidden beneath the Superman emblem sticker on the front.


	3. Interrogation Sequence 1

Seven _hours_ he had spent studying formulas. Seven long, excruciating, _agonizing_ hours of the most _boring_ activity in the world: studying. That's four hundred twenty minutes. _Or_ twenty-five thousand two hundred seconds. Never mind the fact that he has to Google that to Exhibit A(sshole), the only thing he has to show for his strenuous efforts when he returns home is a thick packet of unanswered Chemistry questions with a teeny-tiny _F_ printed neatly at the top beside his name in red Sharpie.

His professor didn't even use a pen. She used _a_ _marker!_ A _permanent_ marker. In front of the entire class. In his face.

 _"You really need to do better, Mr. Jones. I would have given you the chance to retake the test, but I quickly realized that you decided a nap was more important than passing once I heard your snores. As you know, there's no sleeping in my class. This isn't a hotel, Mr. Jones. Don't let it again."_

Talk about a huge overkill.

He never wanted to body-slam a teacher through their desk so hard.

RKO out of nowhere. Watch out, watch out, _watch out!_

To think that people still constantly ask him why he despises that woman. They're stupid. It's obvious that she loves to torment him. Torment him _and_ waste perfectly good paper by refusing to permit him with a retest even though he has a completely unused exam with dozens of questions ready to be answered. All those poor trees _murdered_! The audacity!

It's ridiculous. In fact, it's _so_ ridiculous that it's almost... _demonic_.

Now, stick with him on this. It all adds up.

Professor Schmidt only teaches classes that are scheduled... _in the morning_. She is only ever seen... _in the morning_. Her test was scheduled on the exact day his neighbor decided to begin his torture... _in the morning._ It was scheduled... _in the morning._ Could it be?

Are they working together? Just how many people around him are demons?

He will now have to add his Chemistry professor to his list of demonic suspects. Most recently, the list goes a little something like this:

 **Most Definitely Demons (Srsly):**

 **The Neighbors**

One owns a lawnmower and is possibly in cohorts with his professor. The other, Alfred still has to gather intel on.

 **Arthur Kirkland**

A prime example of why being a hero is so taxing. His very own best friend is on the list (so he's totally not biased). Arthur may not be a demon of the morning hours, but he does talk an awful lot about black magic and the likes. And he has to have been cursed to cook as badly as he does. There's no other logical explanation for those kitchen horrors. No human could be that awful at cooking. He couldn't use a microwave correctly.

 **Campus Groundskeepers**

They are demons as clear as day. Although Alfred does not stay in the dorms, he does witness their daily activities when traveling to class. Lawnmowers, grass edgers, string trimmers, leaf blowers. Any loud machinery that pertains to maintaining greenery a person can dream of, they have it. They have it and they will use it.

 **Professor Schmidt**

She's a bitch.

Need he say more?

With so many demons out to get him, it is mandatory to have a sidekick. The best sidekick a superhero can have is his very own twin, the person who is morally obligated to agree with him on all occasions. His is Matthew, though he does not know it. Matthew (secretly) is both his sidekick and his informant. Right now, finally free from class and at home, Alfred needs information.

Failed test in hand, he takes the stairs two at a time, in an obvious rush. Once he reaches the landing, he notices that Matthew's door is left open, which means Office Hours are in session. Good. He won't have to break in this time.

"Ugh," he groans while passing by.

When he receives no response, he shuffles backwards several steps, all the way back to the top of the stairs, and repeats the process. This time, twice as loud. He stomps heavily and sighs noisily.

Matthews continues to ignore his antics.

Dramatically, Alfred throws himself against the wooden frame of his brother's door, the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. The frame digs into the skin of his back and bumps against each ridge of his spine as he slides to the floor. "Ugh. _Uggghhh!_ " When he gets no answer, he fully tumbles into the bedroom, huffs out a sigh, groans loudly and kicks his feet. Anything to make a racket.

Still, Matthew does not budge. In fact, he does not even glance in Alfred's direction. As if completely oblivious to the ridiculous actions of Alfred only six feet away, he flips to the next page in his book, skims the large amount of text, then uncaps his highlighter and traces it across several sentences, silently mouthing the words to himself.

Each colorful rectangle pierces Alfred's heart. How could he harm that book when he could return it for money! Did he even _know_ how to college.

So studious and _rude!_

"Mattie!" Alfred whines, crawling over to the other's side. "If you don't care about why I'm upset, who else will? As my twin, it's _your_ job to pay attention to me."

"Not now, Alfred. I'm busy."

Matthew knocks away Alfred's hand when it lands on his knee, scooting away until he is out of reach.

No one is ever too busy to hear about demons taking over the Earth. So Alfred stands and peers over his twin's shoulder. Based solely on the slim amount of text he reads, he cannot identify what subject Matthew is currently studying, but he _knows_ that it can't be nearly as important as Satan. Good ol' Lucifer the First. Li'l Lucie. DJ L Stacksz. So he flips the book closed and steals the highlighter right out of the other's hand to rid him of all immediate distractions.

Matthew, now without anything else to absorb his attention, turns in his chair to face Alfred, lips pressed into a tight line. He does not look happy, to say the least. Nonetheless, he finally asks the golden question: "What's wrong?"

Alfred blurts out his answer hastily, knowing that his brother will most likely cut him off. "Our neighbor. He made me fail my test and he's totally a demon and he keeps bothering m—"

"Get out."

 _Oh, my god. So rude!_

Just like that, Matthew whirls back around in his chair, throws open his textbook and begins flipping through the pages to relocate his original place. He does not attempt to grab for his stolen highlighter. Instead, he reaches down beside him to grab a backup from the confines of his drawer. Sidenote: this is how Alfred gets all his supplies for classes.

No matter. Again, Alfred reaches over his shoulder to flip the book closed, accidentally catching Matthew's hand in the fray this time around. That certainly gets a rise of out of the other. When he tries to snatch the book, the two end up in a full-out tug-of-war match. During that moment, the cost of college books leaves Alfred's mind. He'll gladly give $350 for attention. The fate of the world is in question. Anyway, the only thing that truly matters is the fact that he wins.

Well, technically Matthew forfeits by letting go just as Alfred pulls with all his might, sending him flying across the room, but technicalities are never any fun anyway.

Matthew pretends not to notice the commotion of his brother bumping into his bookcase, knocking several items off the shelves.

Regardless, Alfred isn't about to give up that easily. Wasted money is the weakness of everyone. He has an expensive book in his hands and not a single cent of his went into the purchase of it. "You pay attention to me or I start tearing!"

"If I humor you, will you leave me alone to get my work done?"

"Yes."

Apparently, a simple 'yes' is not enough assurance for Matthew because he sticks out his little finger, wiggling the digit until Alfred reaches out to link it with his own.

"I prom."

"What's a prom?"

"Half of a promise."

"Alfred," Matthew says in warning, wrapping his entire hand around Alfred's pinkie. He bends the finger back and Alfred swears he is attempting to snap his fragile bones, ligaments, and tendons. (He really needs some milk.)

"Okay. I prom," he says slowly. "-ise. Geez! You can let go now."

Once the textbook is no longer in danger, Matthew gives in, "I'm listening."

"I need to ask you some questions for a super top-secret investigation I'm conducting." In true noir-esque style, Alfred pulls his _Super Secret Notebook_ from his back pocket, opens it to a blank page, skipping past his latest sketch of an extremely detailed lawnmower, and asks, "About our neighbor on your side: first and foremost, does she mow her lawn?"

Wrong way to begin.

"I'm done with this conversation."

Contrary to his sweet personality, Matthew lacks consideration when it comes to dealing with his twin. Especially when he is being provoked into a state of aggravation. Thus, he grabs Alfred by the arm and forcefully shoves him out into the hallway. He slams the door closed in Alfred's face, sending the wood crashing into the poor hero's nose. It sounds painful, but he doesn't care since the door still closes.

"Holy fuck! Ow! I think you just broke my nose."

"Fuck if I care," yells Matthew. "Leave me alone or it'll be your legs next. And I'm not kidding. I'm trying to study. Not everyone wants an F like you."

 _Rude! Oh so rude._

Alfred feels a sudden need for some ice.

"You're so mean to me, Mattie. Why! I love you so much."

"Go. _Away_!"

Something hits the door and Alfred assumes that Matthew has now escalated to throwing things. That means that he is two seconds away from getting physical and Alfred adores his ability to walk—thank you very much!

"Fine! When he steals your soul or sucks you up into the blades of his lawnmower like grass, don't come crying to me about it!"

" _Shut up!_ "


	4. You Win Some, You Lose Some

_Hero's Log #4254:_

 _It has been done. I have done it. I have formulated the perfect plan to save my sleep from Satanic disturbance. It will require lots of work, but it must be done. And it must be done by a hero._

 **Top Secret Mission: Extermineighbor  
(AKA EXTERMINATE THE NEIGHBOR)**

 **Step One:** Find out all the information you can about that motherfucker. (Full name, Social Security Number, phone number, D.O.B., etc.)

 **Step Two:** If you can't find anything worthy of incriminating said motherfucker, make some shit up.

 **Step Three:** Infiltrate the home of the enemy by pretending to be friendly.

 **Step Four:** Scout the area and locate the offending object.

 **Step Five:** Observe and record patterns and schedule of neighbor.

 **Step Six:** Get rid of their source of power. (Not entirely sure if that's the grass, the morning, or the lawnmower… I think it's the lawnmower.)

 **Step Seven:** Contact the Supernatural Authorities to capture the demon.

 **Step Eight:** Live happily ever after.

 _Admittedly, I fear my heroism may be called into question due to the actions I may have to take to eliminate the enemy. Alas, if no one else will do it, I must sacrifice to bring peace to our world. I will become the hero this street deserves, even if that means being the hero it does not need. I_

Alfred slams his journal closed the moment he hears a distant barking, grip slackening until the pen between his fingers clatters atop the desk. He ambles over to the window, pushes back the curtains and tugs the blinds upward by its dangling string (staggering only somewhat when sunlight pours into the room and pricks needles into his sensitive eyes).

Unsurprisingly, the first image to become clear in his vision is a dog. There, speedily gallivanting up and down the neighbor's lawn, is Laika, zipping through the grass in a blur of brown and white fur. She bounces on her hind legs, yapping eagerly and nipping at her owner's pants as he fiddles with his favorite torture mechanism. So blissfully unaware of his demonism.

(There's the theory that dogs are especially perceptive of the paranormal, but Alfred refuses to believe that because Laika seems so sweet. And if she knew of her owner's Satanic qualities and did nothing about it, that would mean she is either a Hellhound or just pure evil. A minion to a villain.)

This is the third time this week the lawn will be mowed and, rightfully so, Alfred is absolutely sick of it. Although, by now, he has grown used to rising at ungodly hours to stand waiting at the window (silently—and sometimes vocally—wishing death upon his neighbor) in anticipation of that aggravating, mechanical chopping noise that could run for an hour. The point is: he shouldn't _have had_ to grow used to it. No one should.

That is why he is sacrificing his own time for the greater good of all people. Definitely not a ploy to slack off and put aside homework and shit. _Most_ definitely not.

Down below, the man twiddles with the little yellow cap at the foundation of the lawnmower until it can be removed. It's uninteresting to observe, but Alfred watches as he checks the oil on the machine by pulling the dipstick from its little compartment, checks the blade and secures the large bag into place to catch clippings.

Yeah, yeah. Laugh it up. He's been researching all about lawnmowers to prepare for the final fight.

 _What element are lawnmowers weak against? How many HPs does a standard lawnmower have? How does one acquire the Exorcism ability? Should I bring potions and phoenix downs? A masterball?_ You know, covering all the bases of basic battle preparation in all scenarios.

How else would he know that lawnmowers used oil? Like, that's just weird. Who would have thought?

"He's a fucking dipstick, that's what he is," Alfred mutters bitterly to himself.

He remembers watching a video that explained if someone ran the engine of a lawnmower on low oil, it could blow up. He had a good laugh imagining that. A very, very good laugh. Total ab workout.

If only...

Maybe if he distracted him...

"Yo, asshole!" shouts Alfred, pressing his face against the metal-wired mesh of the window screen. His nose is squashed downward and he can hardly breathe through his nostrils, but he'll be damned if that spawn of Satan does not get the full effects of his menacing glare. Which, now that he thinks about it, probably isn't as threatening as it is comical.

There is a ninety-nine percent chance that his neighbor's name is nowhere near close to being "asshole." Alfred has been compiling a list of possible names, Daemon being the top choice. Nonetheless, his neighbor halts in his activities to glance up at his window, predatory smile impossibly wide when he calls out,

"Hello, little Alfred. You are looking quite well today."

Hey, it's not a lie. He'll take a compliment wherever he can get it. Alfred looks damn good every day. It's a gift. Like, genetics or something. Genetics do not apply to demons, thus Mr. Satanic will never be on his level of bringin' sexy back. So Alfred's willing to count that as a win. Current Score: 10001-4. Approximately. Heroes get a ten-thousand point handicap for being awesome.

Who's _really_ keeping score, though?

 _He is._ It's important!

"Yeah? Well, you look like shit," Alfred counters without thought. He's not gonna let that idiot know he appreciates a nice compliment every now and then. "You look like someone beat your face in with a frying pan, you sick, sadistic fuck. With your stupid pastel shirt on. Is it Easter? Am I missing something?"

Laika seems to agree that pastel shirts are to be reserved for Easter only because she instantly delves into another bout of enthusiastic barking. Well, it's either his fashion policing or the sight of his face that she likes. Her tail wags furiously and she begins to race back and forth along the length of fence separating their two homes. And if that isn't the most adorable thing Alfred's ever seen, he's never experienced cute in his entire life.

So cute, in fact, that he gives the dog his full attention.

Who gives a shit about demons and the possibly inevitable destruction of the Earth when there are dogs seeking a little TLC?

"Aww! Hello, Laika, hello! Aren't you just the cutest? Yes, you are! Did you miss me? I think you did!"

It's really difficult to communicate with something cute without adopting that idiotic, embarrassing baby-voice.

The more excited Laika gets, the further together her owner's eyebrows pinch. The last straw is the moment she knocks into the fence and attempts to scramble up and over the wooden barrier. A sharp whistle buries their long awaited reunion. That is all it takes to zap all the overflowing energy from the animal. Immediately, she halts, plopping her bottom into the grass and her tail falls limp. She quiets down and does not move. Completely obedient.

No longer a doge.

Alfred is disheartened. His neighbor looks smug.

The hate is so real.

"Dude. You're such a hater. Stop sippin' on that Haterade."

"I am not 'sippin' on that Haterade.' I just do not like her getting excited about seeing you because you are making her fat," Asshole responds matter-of-factly.

 _He knew._

Which means, he has been watching Alfred sneak into his backyard and play with his dog for quite a while now. _Creeeeepy._ The little bag of dog treats he had once stored in his bottom drawer is now in the trash due to being empty, but he's considering going to buy some more. A whole lot more. He'd feed that dog a thousand treats if it annoyed that motherfucker.

Obviously, he's jealous. Haters gonna hate.

"I am _not_ making her fat. How dare you!" Then he turns his attention to Laika and sweetly reassures, "You're not getting fat. You're looking great. You're still the cutest."

"Yes. You are making her look like you."

That's not even a burn. That's just mean. Alfred feels personally attacked by that statement. Heroes have feelings, too!

Alfred is going to scalp his neighbor one day. He is going to fly out the window, rip out his intestines and jump rope with them. Maybe jump down his throat and stomp on his liver. Give him the good ol' Fatality. A little down, left, right, up. Maybe one of those legendary three-sixty no-scopes.

"I'll have you know that I'm fat in _all_ the right places, fucker."

"So you admit you are fat? I'm sorry to burst your bubble but there are no right places," comments the man without a heart.

The _horror!_ The _lies!_ Everyone knows those anacondas don't want none unless you got buns, hon'! Um, like, who makes the rockin' world go 'round? Who was Sir Mix-a-Lot dropping sick rhymes about? What was Akon telling everyone to smack all on the floor? What was rockin' everywh're? Slim-thick witcho cute ass?

Meghan Trainor deserves an honorable mention—at max. Even if her uncanny resemblance to the Hamburglar does give Alfred nightmares.

Quite frankly, Alfred is speechless. Such blatant ignorance is beyond his comprehension. Millions of songs. Has he heard none?

"By the way, how did your exam go the other day? I never did get the chance to ask."

 _Fucking_ Professor Schmidt. Just the very thought of that exam is enough to make him angry.

Hamburgers… _Cheese_ burger in Paradise. Bless Jimmy Buffett for the beautiful song that calms him in times of rages. _Cheeseburger is paradise. Heaven on Earth with an onion slice. Not too particular, not too precise. I'm just a cheeseburger in..._ Hell! He's not about to let some asshole talk shit about his academic endeavors.

"How about I come down there and show you how well I did on my exam by kicking your ass?"

"Oh? Are you going to fail at that, too?"

Well, shit. Alfred doesn't expect that. How is he supposed to respond?

That _F,_ the grade he is trying to forget. How low of his neighbor to bring that up to rub salt in Alfred's old wounds. Not that any less is to be expected of a demon. Doesn't make it any less hurtful, though. Like, geez. At this point, that's sort of hitting below the belt.

Alfred is going to punch someone. Some _thing_. His professor and his neighbor are conspiring against him, plotting the demise of his college career and no one realizes it but him.

That's okay. He is prepared. For days now, he has kept a secret weapon wrapped in cloth atop his window sill. It's heavy and sturdy, solid enough to break bones if given good air. It's a brick. He's been saving it for a day like this. A day where words are no longer enough.

He unwraps his prized possession and tugs the screen up so he can lean fully out of the window. Honestly, he isn't really thinking when he throws it. His projection is off or something because he misses his target by a mile. Instead of being tossed over the dividing fence, the brick flies only a few feet forward and plummets down through the windshield of his mother's car parked in the driveway.

 _Wow._ Fucking _wow_. To think he once played baseball. Thanks for nothing, Little League.

As the car alarm blares loudly, all Alfred can do is stare at the massive hole cracked into the glass. Not his brightest idea.

Exhibit A doesn't even look bothered in the slightest. His face still holds that stupid, smug grin.

"You have phenomenal aim, Alfred. Maybe if you _aimed_ to do better on your tests, you'd pass."

To make matters worse, he chooses that exact moment to begin mowing the lawn.

 _Not too particular, not too precise,_ Alfred sings quietly, despite the sensation of an impending headache. _I'm just a cheeseburger in paradise. I like mine with lettuce and tomato._

Why is his life like this?

10001-5.

He'll practice and practice and _practice_ until he can lift a car and throw it with enough precision to hit a fucking bird seventeen miles away because a brick would be smashing through that demon's skull at one point. Don't misunderstand, Alfred is definitely _not_ a murderer. He just has a lot of anger. If anything, he's more of a… problem solver. Sometimes the only resolution is tossing a brick at someone's head. That's life. It's not his fault. He doesn't make the rules.

It'll have to wait, though. Right now, he has to devote all his time to explaining what happened to the car before his mother goes to work. Their nice, little neighborhood will be in shambles if he doesn't clarify why a brick with the word _Satanist_ printed on it has been hurled through a windshield.

Alfred didn't choose the heroic life, it chose him.

* * *

 _ **Okay, it only took me two years to finally write an Author's Note, but here it is. I want to thank everyone who has followed, favorited, and reviewed this little shit story of mine. It means a lot to know that people are actually enjoying this. Feel free to request anything you would like to see or know. For example: why the hell does Alfred have a brick? You know. Because the little things matter.**_

 _ **Also, to my lovely fellow writer who wants to see Matthew and Ivan being great friends and so on, I definitely already had that planned. Matthew is a really shitty sidekick.**_

 _ **This is the first part of You Win Some, You Lose Some. The second part (You Lose Some, You Win Some) will be posted very, very soon, so stay tuned.**_


	5. You Lose Some, You Win Some

Alfred gets a _three_ -hour lecture following _"The Incident"—_ as Mattie so lovingly calls it. A lengthy, _lengthy_ lecture that requires him to follow his mother's every step in order to hear the entirety of it all; from the kitchen, where she washes the dishes, to the living room, where she briefly catches up on the local news. At one point, he is even forced to stand outside the bathroom door so that he won't miss her complaining, which she does _loudly_ over the sound of running water as she showered.

Talk about being _extra AF._ Ughhhhh!

From what he can recall, it went a little something like this:

 _What were you thinking?_ Blah, blah, blah. _Completely irresponsible._ Blah, blah, blah. _Are you crazy? I just don't understand._ Blah, blah, blah. _Where is this_ ridiculous _behavior stemming from?_ ("Not 'ridiculous.' Rational!" he had countered, only to be forced into a submissive silence by the Parental Glare™.) _I can't deal with this right now. Did it ever cross your mind that your mother has to go to work in that vehicle?_ Blah, blah, blah. _When I get home, we're going to have a serious talk!_ (Because, apparently, three entire hours of a lecture isn't already a "serious talk.") Blah… blah… fucking blah.

In all honesty, her words go in one ear and out the other. Honestly, woman! He's heard it all before. There are much more pressing matters to yell and complain about. Like demons! Real, live, sexy, breathing demons right in the home next door in a town where there are no Winchester brothers! Alfred wants to pay attention, he wants to feel guilt for his actions because his mother seems genuinely distraught, but all he can think about is the fact that his neighbor knew his name. _Knows_ his name. _Said_ his name as if he had the privilege to.

 _"Hello, little Alfred."_ He had said _. "You have phenomenal aim, Alfred."_

 _Alfred. Alfred. Alfred._ Little _Alfred._ Spoken like a gentle caress. As if they shared some sort of personal connection.

Egh. The thought alone is enough to make him shudder, nearly folding in on himself in a futile attempt to disappear.

Thankfully, the effects are dulled significantly by the ever-continuing lecture he endures without an end in sight.

 _Someone threw a brick out of a helicopter_ doesn't work.

 _Mrs. Costanza said there's only enough room for_ one _baking sensation in town and that's her. Even though she's seventy-two years old, she hurled that brick like a pro. I'd watch my back if I were you. I think she's really big on jazzercise._

Needless to say, that excuse doesn't work either.

If not for the brick lying on the center console of the vehicle, his mother would have bought the excuse of: _the next-door de— neighbor was mowing his lawn—for the thousandth time this week, I might add—when the damn thing kicked up a rock and the force busted the window. Tragic. We should have a block meeting to ban all lawnmowers. I'll get the flyers printed out right now!_

In the end, his ears are only spared from an inevitable implosion because responsibilities do not disappear when unfortunate circumstances arise and his mother (thank God!) still has to go to work.

Her departure is such a relief that he wishes she'll never return. That is until he realizes he still doesn't know how to do his own laundry. And who will bring him cookies and milk when he's _saaaaaaaaddddd?_ Definitely not Mattie.

* * *

The next morning, as the very last dregs of his mother's complaints finally dry up, Alfred prepares for battle.

It is time!

After a hearty breakfast of Lucky Charms, Froot Loops, Fruity Pebbles and Trix (all mixed together), he retires to his room to set Mission: Extermineighbor into action. He pulls out his _Super Secret Notebook,_ boots up his computer and draws the blinds on the window overlooking the neighbor's yard closed with a parting gift of two middle fingers. You know, just in case the bastard is doing his own spying. Then, he takes a seat, puts on a little motivational music ( _I'll Make a Man Out of You_ ), and gets down to business as prompted by Donny Osmond.

 **Step One:** Find out all the information you can about that motherfucker.

Considering his neighbor is probably thousands of years old, Alfred thinks MySpace is a pretty safe bet to begin his search. Either that or Facebook. Unfortunately, neither is very informative when all you have is a first name.

Maybe Craigslist? Missed Demonic Sacrifices or something? Looking for an unwitting human to make a deal with? D4H (Demon 4 Human)? What exactly is the protocol for these types of things? Instagram? Where he lurks, waiting for desperate social media influencers to cry and plead for more followers!

Creepy! Alfred's heard the stories. Does he really want to chance digging a hole that deep? When he decides to risk it and Instagram refuses to load, his answer is made clear: _Hell no!_

Off to the one site that's never once let him down, then! _AWAY_!

A quick Google Search of the name Ivan does absolutely nothing in the information department. Something pops up about some sort of Japanese fashion model or some other, but he's the farthest thing from interested in that. Though, admittedly, the guy does look… off.

There's _Ivan VI of Russia,_ which is too similar to researching a throwaway assignment for some elective History class for him to give a hoot. So he glosses over that, too.

It's when he reaches _Ivan the Terrible_ that he knows he's hit the jackpot. Obviously, he isn't the only one who has been tormented by this demon with a very strange attachment to a lawnmower.

He doesn't bother reading the article because the title says it all. And considering it comes from the trustiest, most trustworthy, secure internet source ever, AKA Wikipedia, there's no need to double check anything. Instead, he prints out the several pages of given information before opening up a new tab and typing in Amazon.

After all, one of the most important aspects of being a hero is the costume! _No_ hero is complete without one. Unfortunately, Alfred never did learn how to sew (Peter Parker was either really smart or really fucking lame; Catwoman was just adhering to gender roles). But that's what costume stores are for. They do all the work for you and you assist in stabilizing the economy by giving people money and work.

Or something like that.

He doesn't really know. Alfred's attention went more to the bill on Capitol Hill, rather than the economy. How did they expect him to care without the aid of a catchy melody? Preposterous!

Of course there is the problem of individuality but when you live in a small town, does it really matter?

Dragging his finger across the touchpad, he watches as the little pointer cursor glides over to the yellow box. It hovers for several seconds before Alfred takes the leap and clicks _Confirm Order._ He leans back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, legs crossed at the ankle.

So he's encountered a few minor setbacks. None of it matters.

Everything is fine.

He barely registers the sound of the demon's weapon of choice starting up. With the window closed and the blinds and curtains drawn, he is content to fantasize about a paradise void of all things loud and related to landscaping.

It truly is only a matter of time.

Everything is going according to plan.

* * *

Whistling an appropriate tune for his afternoon escapade (a little _007: James Bond_ seems fitting, so he settles on that), as all qualified mailmen do, Alfred saunters down the street with a particularly flamboyant pep in his step to match the rhythm.

The sun is out, the sky is clear and there isn't a single lawn being mowed. _It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood. A beautiful day for a neighbor_ … to get robbed and exposed for the no-good, soul-sucking demon that he really is!

Karma works in strange ways, it does.

Tipping his hat down to shield his eyes from any lurking Nosy Nancies, Alfred does not bother to pretend he's delivering mail to each and every house he passes. That will take too much time. Time he doesn't have when Ivan could be back any minute.

Instead, he strides purposefully, seemingly on a mission, which is exactly it, and does not slow until he's directly in front of his neighbor's home.

To give credit where credit is due, the house is painstakingly plain. Not at all suspicious or representative of the demon that resides within its walls. The sunflower-patterned curtains that hang in the kitchen window, the white picket fence, the brightly-colored flowers lining the perimeter of the house; it's all downright ironic. A false image of innocence.

Cautiously, Alfred creeps up the steps to stand on the tiny, homely mat at the front door that exclaims _Welcome!_ Pft! Yeah right!

"Knock, knock," he whispers, punctuating each word with a sharp rap.

As planned, no reply comes. The door does not open, there is no anxious barking. Both occupants of the home are currently out.

Perfect.

"Who's there?" Alfred inquires in answer to himself, hopping down the stairs and running across the front lawn to the stupid little, old-school red mailbox at the end of the driveway. "Oh, I don't know. Possible identity theft?"

The joke is left at that. Impromptu stand up is a whole lot harder than it looks.

Once the lid to the mailbox closes, Alfred, looks left and right, searching for peering eyes or partially open blinds. Ever vengeful, he spares a second to throw up two middle fingers and books it; clothes fluttering in the wind, tension coursing through his legs as he heavily pounds the pavement.

 _Fuck the neighborhood watch_ , he thinks. Then, because he is bold and daring, he yells it out for all to hear. "Fuck the neighborhood watch!"

He cackles the entire way back home (all twenty to thirty feet of it), though totally not in a villainous way.

* * *

Okay, so, in hindsight, _maybe_ taking the mail he had just stolen into the kitchen to examine out in the open wasn't the best idea he's ever had. Really, it wasn't so much an idea as it was a spur of the moment decision. On the other hand, in his defense, his home is homebase, his place of safety. There's not many other options for his secret hideout. Everyone has to start somewhere. At least it isn't the basement, the very bottom.

The first letter he opens is addressed to a _Mr. Ivan Braginsky_ (what a disgustingly demonic name) _._ The upper left-hand corner is stamped nicely with a return address to the water company. Alfred almost considers aborting his mission in respect for money-handling. He doesn't know exactly how credit scores work, but he knows it's wrong to fuck someone's up.

But, you know... _Almost._ Almost _—_ because he immediately notices upon ripping through the envelope that for someone who spends more time watering his grass and garden than breathing, his water bill is surprisingly low. _Suspiciously_ low. Odd. So the government is in on this entire scheme? That is the only reasonable explanation for these conspiratorial shenanigans.

The government was in on this... Not Uncle Sam! Anyone _but_ him! First, the repitilian presidents. The false moon landing. Bubblegum Pop songs disguising haunting subliminal messages about the all-powerful Illuminati! Now this?

A searing pain streaks through Alfred's chest, forcing him to lay a hand against his rapidly beating heart. If the world weren't flat, he's pretty sure he'd be falling into space right now.

Had the American government failed him? But… but PATRIOTISM!?

 _One thing at a time, Alfie. The mail, the mail._

 _Ivan Braginsky_ is a recurring theme in his mail-load. Although, one company appears to think _Braginsky_ and _Brainsky_ are interchangeable. Other than the bill from the water company, there isn't much else worth reading. Unless junk mail has suddenly become valuable.

It's disappointing, to say the least.

"There has to be something more."

So he flips through it all again. While he does so, a sudden noise startles him. He yelps and whips around, ready to be eliminated by the CIA, who, no doubt, has already received knowledge that Alfred has become knowledgeable about the government's knowledge and lack of acknowledgement about the knowledge. Say _that_ three times fast.

 _"_ You were being too quiet down here," Matthew says, accusingly. "What are you doing?"

"Opening mail. What does it look like I'm doing?"

His eyes narrow, focusing in on Matthew as the other pushes away from the door frame, drawing closer and closer.

Unfortunately, unfairly adept at appearing relatively innocent, his twin is faster than him and is able to snatch one of the letters off the table before he can be restrained.

Quickly, he bounces out of reach, holding out an arm to block Alfred from getting too close. His hand knocks into Alfred's glasses, pressing the ridges sharply into the bridge of his already bruised nose. The pain causes Alfred to shrink away in pain, yelping sharply. Matthew snickers evilly at his demise.

"Fucking four-eyes."

"You're the one with four eyes," Alfred counters, rather lamely. His face really hurts.

"This is our neighbor's mail. Where did you even get this?"

"Out of his mailbox-duh! Geez, Mattie. You're supposed to be the smart one."

Matthew, always the spoilsport, does not appear to be the least bit amused by this revelation.

"This is illegal, Al," he argues, waving the envelope around like a flag. "You can't just steal this guy's mail and open it."

"Waaaatch me," Alfred sings.

Another envelope is chosen from the small pile of letters and Alfred slowly tears through it, purposely staring directly into Matthew's corrupted soul. So maybe he did learn a few things from Ivan.

Ew. He said Ivan. Like they're friends. _Ew._

"He's not of this world so it's definitely not illegal. Like, for example: look at this. It has some type of weird, demonic, symbolic yin-yang shit on it. Look! You can't tell me he's not a fucking spawn of Satan."

To prove his point, he flips over the letter and shoves the flimsy piece of paper into his brother's face, nearly tattooing the ink into Matthew's skin. For a brief second, Alfred actually believes he has Matthew backed into a corner, trapped between logic and common sense.

Alas, what is a demon to a non-believer? A sensible, pleasant human being.

"That's Russian," Matthew deadpans. As if that explains everything. As if that excuses Ivan from the very short list of possible demons. As if Russians aren't inherently evil!

"Russians are the bad guys in every single movie ever created. Every single video game!" Alfred protests, gesturing wildly, nearly smacking his brother in the face with all his dramatics. "Coincidence? I think _not_!"

With an exasperated snort, Matthew whirls around on his heel and begins his arrogant, righteous march out of the kitchen, yelling over his shoulder, "I'm telling Mom."

 _Nooooooooooooo!_

Didn't Alfred already have enough problems?

"You're such a snitch! Snitches get stitches."

The good ol' teasing tactic does not phase Matthew in the slightest. Were it ten years ago, it definitely would have.

" _Mo—_ "

Alfred screeches like a pterodactyl before the shout can even really begin. Never mind the fact that their mother isn't home.

" _Okay,_ okay. What do you want me to do? Take it back?"

Alfred turns up the pitiful antics ten-fold. He pokes out his bottom lip, widens his big blue eyes and thinks about the time he accidentally left his pet goldfish out of the tank to ease up the waterworks.

"Yes. And apologize, too. You shouldn't be terrorizing our neighbor simply because you have some moronic idea that he is a demon."

Taken aback by this outcome, Alfred quickly opens his mouth to debate. Only to be swiftly silenced by a mere wave of the hand. Why is he always the one being called idiotic when all the facts were right there!

"Don't even. Take it back. Some of that stuff actually looks important." Matthew commands, with an air of finality. "And take that ridiculous costume off! Jesus!"

Alfred stomps his foot, folds his arms across his chest in true temperamental toddler fashion.

"I never get to do _anything_! I hate this house!"

Screw his brother and his righteousness. Fuck his morals, too. Alfred is _not_ going to apologize for taking his neighbor's mail. That would be like… Like… Like the Batman apologizing for stopping the Joker from blowing up a hospital or something. Now _that_ was a moronic idea.

Furthermore, not that Matthew was aware, but he did not spend over sixty-five dollars (not including one-day shipping and handling funds) of refunded loan money on a postman costume to use in an elaborate scheme to lift his neighbor's mail only to return it with a sincere apology. An _apology_ of all the things. That's bullshit.

He would go over there and steal that fucking lawnmower, though.

As soon as his robber costume is delivered… consider Step Three: Initiated.

It's only a matter of time.


	6. War on the Homefront

_Delivered._

At least, that is what the website says. Refreshing the page a few several hundred times does nothing to change that. The timestamp does not falter.

Delivered, delivered, delivered.

Which would be all fine and dandy had his package actually have been what they say it's been: delivered. But it hasn't.

Alfred knows because he's been waiting. Both patiently and _im_ patiently. Every. Single. Day. Directly in front of the door. And when he couldn't be due to other commitments, he kindly requested Matthew take his place.

Still nothing.

One-Day Shipping and it's already been a week. An _entire_ week. That's seven full days. Six, of which, are considered business. So he thinks it's perfectly acceptable that he plans to open a can of Whoop Ass on the UPS man whenever he decides to fucking show up. Then, he's going to drive up to the nearest Amazon headquarters and kick the ass of whoever happens to be in the highest position of power that day. And unlike some people, when Alfred says he's going to do something, he actually _delivers._

Whether it be an ass-kicking or a rather stern talking to, somebody is going to have a very bad day, very soon. And if Alfred doesn't get a refund, well… There's enough to go around for an entire team of workers. Wouldn't want anyone to feel left out.

He slams the lid to his laptop closed. Any more clicking and the F5 key will be destroyed. Done with the frantic refreshing of the Tracking page today, he flexes his hand and attempts to shake away the beginnings of a vicious cramp.

The pain merely serves as kindling to the hungry fire of his rage. He's really, really pissed off. _Way_ pissed off. Yet another wrench thrown into his plans. Always one step forward, two steps back. If he were the Hulk, he'd been green and in tattered daisy dukes right now.

He's tempted to throw something but the last time he did… The Incident, including the highly acclaimed sequel: The Lecture, plays back in his head like war scenes in a movie about a soldier suffering from PTSD. _Relatable._

Did he really want to risk it?

Nah. Nah, it isn't worth the inevitable headache. Although, maybe a sudden brain implosion will be the easiest way to mitigate his anger.

None of his usual tranquillity methods are working. Nor are they available for use without some consequence. Photoshopping his face onto the bodies of superheroes is a no-go since it will require logging back into his computer, which means he'll have to see that stupid triggering Tracking page all over again. His hand can't take much more of that. Writing another Hero's Log could work but his _Super Secret Notebook_ is currently untraceable. And holding a pencil or pen proves to be quite the challenge.

There has to be something he can do without strenuous usage of his hand.

 _Eating!_ He can do that!

Trusty ol' Ronald McDonald never fails to lift his spirits in times of peril. Now if he can just find his keys. Oh, and money. He definitely needs money! About fifty dollars, at least (not including tax).

He'll get a Sweet BBQ Bacon Burger—or ten. Fries! _Lots_ of fries! A milkshake to dip his fries in. Chocolate and vanilla! Variety is the spice of life. Can't forget the Coke. A Big Mac, a Quarter Pounder (with cheese), a—

A loud _bang!_ against the door yanks him from his reverie. He practically jumps out of his skin. Immediately, he thinks _GHOSTS!_ Paranormal Activity! That startles a scream out of him. An identical scream comes in reply. Alfred, unable to stop himself, screeches once more until they are trapped in a shrieking match of back-and-forth. Luckily, it doesn't last very long.

"Alfred!" Matthew yells, battering against the flimsy barrier that blocks him from entering his brother's room. "The door!"

"Yeah! Don't freaking break it, douchenozzle. Go away! I'm busy."

Twin Telepathy is totally a thing because Alfred can _feel_ the way in which Matthew wishes to get his hands around his neck. It's not a pleasant feeling in the least. Where is the love? To think that people actually believe that Matthew is the good one. Idiots!

"That's not very nice, Mattie!"

He's rolling his eyes now. Alfred knows he is. _So_ predictable. However, Alfred is not expecting the furious rattling of the doorknob that follows; an action that irritates the hell out of him.

"Just go get the freaking door. I'm sick of hearing you crying at night about your damn package."

Whoa, whoa! In that context, it sounds a lot weirder than it really is.

Package. Alfred snorts. Pack- _age._ P-P-P-P-P-Package!

His _package. That_ door! Ooooohhhh! Finally!

"My package! Well, why didn't you just say so, ol' buddy, ol' pal?"

Gosh. All the beating around the bush shenanigans is useless.

"I tri—"

Alfred flies out of his room, more or less squashing poor Mattie against the wall. All his anger forgotten, he races down the stairs, taking them three at a time with all the speed of a wild gazelle, and skids into the foyer. Thank you, _Risky Business_. He wrenches the door open, hands stretched out, ready to receive the package (that's what she said) he's been agonizing over for the past week. Except, it's not the UPS man he sees. It's—

"Ivan?"

What the fuck? Shit. Alfred quickly shuts himself up by covering his mouth. He'd called him by his first name to his face. Fuck. Could that, like, open a fucking portal to Hell or something? Pandora's Box? GASP! _Alfred's_ Box. Instead of his burglar costume, he opens the box to a world of horrors. Sounds legit. Great plot. He should pitch that.

"Ah, so you do know my name," speaks the Demon (don't call him Ivan, _don't_ call him Ivan). The spawn of Satan. The bane of Alfred's very existence. The "morning person". He even has the nerve to _smile._ Goddamn if that smile isn't attractive enough to make Alfred swoon. Why hath God forsaken him! The man is a total supernatural beauty. Emphasis on the supernatural because those eyes… What the fuck are those eyes? They're the striking color of blooming bellflowers. Or is it aster?

(Sidenote: Alfred is not a fan of flowers but he has been researching to make sure that Ivan— _ew—_ isn't growing anything harmful or linked to other worldly endeavors. So yeah. Bellflowers or aster.)

This is the first time he's noticed. The first time he's been close enough to notice. The first time they've had an encounter in which they could be face-to-face, within arms reach and able to touch one another (not that they would). And Alfred is overwhelmingly tongue-tied. For once in his chatter-filled life, he is at a lost for words. _Speechless._

Yet he is a whirlwind of unidentifiable emotions. Why the hell is this demon at his front door? Invading his privacy, terrorizing him from his own turf. That reserved can of Whoop Ass… should he take it off the shelf for this special occasion? Should he be angry? If so, angry at Ivan or angry at the fact that his package still hasn't been _delivered_? And is he experiencing _attraction_ to this guy? Disgusting. It must be the magical workings of a spell.

He feels queasy. This is too much.

Yeeeaaaaahhhh,

"No," Alfred declares, swinging the door closed before anything more can be said.

Too, _too_ much. Too, _too_ close.

An eerie creak of the floorboards sounds from behind and Alfred is frightened to look. Had Ivan somehow weaseled his way into the house by phasing through the walls? No, no, no. Impossible, right? Something about welcoming into homes and crossing over thresholds, he's pretty sure he's read that. That's a thing. Then again, was that about demons or vampires?

Nothing makes sense anymore. His mind is reeling. He really needs to go to McDonald's now. Stress eating is a go on all fronts. Time to find those keys.

There on the stairs, chin resting in an upturned palm and elbows propped on his knees, Matthew waits. Creepily, he might add. With a grin that says _I know something you don't._ But what?

 _Et tu, Mattie?_

"That was rude," Meddling Mattie—as he shall be called henceforth as Alfred's sidekick—comments, sounding somewhat amused.

Alfred, on the other hand, is the farthest thing from amused. None of this is funny. No urge to give a little teehee. And he still doesn't have his package! There is good luck and there is bad luck. There is bad luck and even worse luck. There is worse luck and _the_ worst luck. Whatever comes after _the_ worst is his luck, he's certain. The world is against him. The government, too.

"Rude?" shouts Alfred, incredulous. "No, what's rude is mowing your lawn almost daily before the sun even rises. _That's_ rude!"

The doorbell rings, echoing throughout the house. Alfred, who once would have scampered to the door like an excited puppy, is frozen. Had Ivan never left? Both he and Matthew turn their gazes toward the front entrance, half expecting the door to fling open with the power of telekinesis. Or maybe that's just Alfred's own paranoia.

"I think it's Ivan again. We should let him in."

 _Ivan?_ Were they accomplices? Acquaintances? _Et tu, Mattie! Again?_ Jesus.

"No! What the fuck? Absolutely not!" Cupping his hands around his mouth, Alfred replies, in a poor example of a whisper, "What the hell is wrong with you? Don't call him that! Call him Mr. Braginsky or something. Geez! And definitely don't _invite_ him into our home. He's hella fucking creepy, dude."

Struck by realization, Matthew hops up from his spot on the stairs, eyes wide with disbelief, so contrary to the smile that has yet to leave his face. "Oh. My. God."

Shit, shit, shit! The whole Twin Telepathy bullshit. He _knows!_ A secret that must be taken to the grave.

Prepared to throw down, Alfred charges up the steps. Fuck the cramp in his hand, he's going to throttle his brother before he can ruin everything. "Don't say it! I swear on my life, I will kill you."

However, Matthew is not about to go down that easily. Before Alfred can grasp hold of his collar, he scurries out of range and vaults over the banister to put as much distance between them as possible.

The bastard is laughing. Finding entertainment in the prospect of Alfred's imminent demise. The bell chimes again, this time followed by a series of knocks in rapid succession. Someone is out there. Ivan still? Fuck! Does he continue to chase down Matthew or does he go for the door instead? Choices, choices.

"Don't say what? That you li—"

"Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Alfred already knows where this is going and he doesn't like it. Not one bit.

Down the stairs he goes, back to where all these problems began. The door or the brother, the door or the brother; under considerable distress, he turns between his options. If he shuts Matthew up now, he'll have nothing to worry about. If he rushes to answer the door, he can verify that whoever is out there is definitely not Ivan, who, for all he knows, is eavesdropping on this very conversation. Damn it!

In his peripheral vision, Alfred catches sight of Matthew preparing to yell, mouth opening wide. YOLO!

"Alfred and Ivan sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S— _Ack!_ "

The next events happen seemingly in slow motion:

Matthew crashes to the floor, thrown off balance by a vicious tackle from Alfred.

The door swings open.

Their mother appears highlighted by the setting sun in the doorframe.

A figure shifts just over her shoulder, following close behind.

"Right through here, Mr. Braginsky," his mother is saying, waving the man through the door and right over the threshold of their home.

Mr. Braginsky. It's _Ivan._

Alfred faints.

From hunger.

Shit's about to go down.


	7. The Fall of a Hero

_This must be what Heaven is like,_ Alfred concludes. There is no other way to describe it; no other explanation for this pleasurable, relaxing state of pure _nothingness_ —like a never-ending dream. Except the sensations are right there. Real enough to actively explore with all five senses. This is no two-minute out-of-body experience.

So, to Alfred, this is Heaven:

Smell: _French fries!_ McDonald's french fries, to be exact. A large with a healthy helping of ketchup. The sweet smell of carbonated soda. A burger. He's sad to say that it's difficult to identify which one. Then again, what does it matter? They're all downright delicious anyway. The smell of it wafts up to his nose. The alarming amount of grease, the chopped and sauteed onions, the perfectly sliced pickles, the mouth-watering beef, the melting cheese.

 _God!_ So close, yet so far away.

Sound: Yes, yes! He can hear the sound of an angel singing. Beautiful, like the light plucking of a harp. Calling out to him just above the strummed rifts of his favorite song, _Cheeseburger in Paradise_. How fitting. _Alfred_ , they say. _Alfred, Alfred._ They want to feed him. He knows it because this is Heaven and you can't starve in Heaven. What kind of everlasting happiness would that be?

 _"Alfreeeeeddddd."_

"Yes?" That's his voice answering. "I am ready to receive. Give it to me. Put it in my mouth."

A snort, something dangerously close to snickering. A muffled giggle directly above his head. But that's not right. They can't be laughing at him. Do angels even laugh?

It doesn't matter. Something is pressing against his lips.

"Come on, Al," an angel coos. "Aren't you hungry? Don't you want to eat?"

Taste: Yes! Yes, he wants to eat! His stomach grumbles angrily. Is it touching his spine? It must be. It hurts. His body is probably attempting to eat itself, he's so hungry. Oh, God. He is going to die if he doesn't consume something within the next nanosecond. He's just so positively starved that he sticks out his tongue for a taste of whatever is being offered to him. A fry. He relishes the flavor of salt, the slight crunch before oily, savory potato in his mouth.

Yes, this truly is Heaven. God's reward to him for conquering the neighborhood demon. For being a hero.

He deserves this. He also deserves a bite of that burger he can still smell. That nice, juicy, delicious burger. Why isn't he being given that?

"The burger. The burger," he whines and reaches out for it.

Touch: His finger hits something squishy. An angel yelps, sounding suspiciously like Mattie. So his brother made it to Heaven, too. What luck! Admittedly, he had his worries. He's spent a night or two wondering if his level-headed, sweet little twin was working in cohorts with the demon across the way. Tossing and turning wondering if Matthew had sold his soul by accident and been made none the wiser by some trivial thing like being given a plate of those stupid sandwich cookies shaped into maple leaves. Maple something-something.

" _Fuck!_ That was my eye. Somehow he always manages to get right under the glasses."

Is cursing allowed in Heaven? Aren't swear words supposed to be the language of the devil or something?

Sight: His eyelids flutter open and this is definitely. NOT. Heaven! _What the Hell!_

 _Blasphemy! Deception, deceit, disgrace!_

Two curious faces peer down at him, hovering over his prone body. Not at all the cherubic angels he had been imagining during his brief moment of hunger-induced insanity.

 _Heathens_! The correct description of these twisted beings. A Demon (Ivan) on the left, a demon? (Mattie) on the right. One and a half pairs of eyes (his brother is still trying to soothe his injured cornea from Alfred's wayward finger) boring holes into his forehead. Probably extracting his thoughts. Is that how they've gotten here?

"Hello, little Alfred," Ivan says cheerily, grinning maniacally. "Did you enjoy the food I fed you? You are very cute when you are hungry, like a starved animal. I much prefer when you are quiet. Very nice."

He takes another fry from the red carton clutched in his hand and shoves the damn thing into Alfred's mouth before any response can be made. Doesn't even care that Alfred nearly gags on the slim wedge of potato. The bastard simply smiles wider, leans down to touch his fingers to Alfred's thigh and say, "Now I see where you are getting all this roundness from. You should eat healthier. Perhaps that is why you cannot focus properly in school and pass your exams."

Matthew, the little traitor, chokes like he's stifling laughter and does not come to his aid. Nine months sharing a womb with him and this is what he gets. He should have made him pay rent in there. His brother, pure, adorable Mattie is corrupted. Tarnished. No longer able to be trusted. His own sidekick and confidante, compromised.

Alfred scrambles back across the floorboards until his spine collides painfully with the wall and things are _fight or flight_. He curls his legs in close to his body, grateful for any amount of distance he is able to put between him and Ivan's grabby hands. He'll be damned if he'll sit there and be tormented and abused in his own home.

"Don't touch me, you… you—"

Ivan is quick to interrupt him, never dropping that sickly sweet grin. It's disgusting, really. "What? Usually you are so bold. What happened? It is as if your confidence lies in the fact that I cannot harm you when you're tossing insults from your bedroom window."

Oh! So it's going to be like that now, is it? A regular ol' Roast Session at the expense of his feelings. Cool. Nothing wrong with that. Totally fine. One-hundred percent a-okay.

"Don't touch me, you pervert," Alfred finally bites out.

Here, Matthew intervenes. The traitorous mediator. "Al," he warns in his aggravatingly parental _don't go there_ tone.

He even does that thing where he cuts him a look over the top of his glasses. Still, Alfred doesn't care.

"He called me fat and stupid!"

And a coward but if they went down the entire list they'd never leave the house again.

"Yes, but he didn't call you something you could potentially get arrested for."

Arrested? Is he seriously playing that card right now? There it is. Plain as day. Matthew is not on his side. He knew since the very beginning. And now he has solid proof. The final nail in the coffin of his heart. No one is on his side. _Cool_. He's cornered and has no one. _That's fine._ The fall of a hero. He feels as if he could cry. But he won't. Not in front of them. Not in front of anybody. _It's simply_ _the way the cookie crumbles_. _Get a glass of milk. Then proceed to spill the milk and not cry about it. Perfect._

It all makes sense now. Ivan is manipulating Matthew into using their twinly bond to stay one step ahead. This… this was a nightmare.

"He called me fat, Mattie," Alfred argues, kicking out his legs in a sudden bout of frustration, very tantrum-esque. "It's not fair that you're only talking to me about being mean."

They must look idiotic. Three adults sitting on the floor of the foyer. Alfred scrunched against the wall as if he's in timeout. Ivan smiling like a serial killer who recently chopped up his latest victim and is ecstatic he did it with enough time left to get McDonald's after. Matthew sitting between them, hands folded in his lap; the teacher easing the tension between two rowdy kids with a penchant for constantly pushing each other's buttons.

"It is not mean, it is honest. Do not be such a baby about it."

"Ivan."

Now Ivan is the one being admonished by Matthew. Alfred mockingly screws up his face and mouths _ha ha_.

His brother slaps his knee before continuing on, "If Alfred says what you said was mean, then it was. You have to consider his feelings, too. I think you two should apologize to one another."

Ivan, looking the part of the scolded (because he's a pathetic kiss-ass), bows his head and apologizes in a manner that manages to seem wholeheartedly sincere despite his actual words. "I am sorry, Alfred. I think you are very… shapely. Voluptuous."

"V- _Voluptuous_!" he shrieks, voice strangled.

"Yes. It is a word even you know, correct?"

"Fuck you!" Alfred yells. "You lonely, psychotic, demonic piece of shit!"

"That is not a very kind thing to say, Alfred. I am not lonely. I would also like an apology."

"Shove it up your ass, you fucking weirdo. I should get a restraining order. Where's Mom, Mattie? I want a goddamn restraining order."

Yeah. That is a good question. He gives himself a pat on the back. Where is she? She was here before everything went black. Now she's… She's what? Alfred looks right, left. No Mom. Up. Down. All around. Still no Mom. She's gone. They must have gotten to her. Oh, God. Rest in peace. He didn't appreciate her spaghetti enough. The worst son!

"She—" Matthew starts but Alfred is already jumping to his feet, pointing an accusing finger. He _knows!_ He won't give them a second to deny it.

"You guys sacrificed her, didn't you? Oh, my God! Oh, _my God!_ Your own mother, Mattie? You sick fuck! We need a priest. We need a priest! You need an exorcism— _right now_! You're possessed. I can't believe you! How could you? I still love you, though. It's going to be okay. We're gonna get you help. Everything will be fine. Everything's going to be okay. I'm going to save you."

"Al. Calm down. What are you talking a—"

Everyone's standing now. They're staring at him like he's lost his mind but he knows what's what. He's not stupid. Never has been. They're going to try and kill him next. He wonders how they killed his mother. Did they burn her on the ceiling or some other weird shit? How would they kill him? Throw him in a vat of toxic waste? Maybe he should let them. Maybe he'll come out with actual superpowers.

Matthew takes a step toward him. He screams.

"Leave me alone! Stay back! I rebuke thee!"

"Al—"

"In the name and blood of—" Whatever else Alfred yells is a jumbled, inaudible mess as he jogs into the kitchen and out the back door, fingers thrown up to form a cross.

Then all is quiet until the running footsteps of a panicking Alfred can no longer be heard.

"Your brother," Ivan mutters, seemingly deep in thought. "He is very strange."

"Yup. That's Al for you. What can you do?" Matthew shrugs his shoulders and leads Ivan to the front door. "You can leave the fries on the floor. He'll come back and eat them. He always does."

Ivan looks skeptical but does as he is told. It is when he's back on the porch that he remembers something.

"Tell me, Matthew."

"Yes?"

"What is this about he and I sitting in a tree? We have never done that. Does he enjoy those kinds of activities?"

And that is how Matthew becomes the record holder for World's Longest Sigh.


End file.
